


Promises

by Nerdanelparmandil



Series: Spellbound - Stories of Anairë and Nolofinwë [1]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Darkening of Valinor, F/M, Romance, Separations, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-04
Updated: 2019-08-04
Packaged: 2020-07-30 14:08:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20098435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nerdanelparmandil/pseuds/Nerdanelparmandil
Summary: After the kinslaying of Alqualondë, after the Doom of Mandos, Anairë cannot find it in herself to go on. Nolofinwë, however, is determined to follow Fëanáro. They talk, they fight, they make up, but both know that something in their relationship has come to an end.Or: their last moments together.





	Promises

“I will not come with you.”

Nolofinwë froze, his hands pausing over the clothes he was rolling and tying together, feeling as if a thousand needles were piercing his skin. Her voice had been quiet, almost a murmur, but it could have well been a shout in the night, a crystal vase shattering on a marble floor, for the effect it had on him.

“Wh- What?”

He heard the rustle of her gown, her soft steps, he could even hear her breathe. She seemed calm, collected, as she always gave the impression to be, as the princess she had become, as the queen she would make at his side, if only she –

She was close, but did not reach out to him, did not brush her slender fingers along his arm to take his hand, as she would have done in their youth, before this strife had created a rift between them. He so desperately wanted her to cross it.

He turned, eyes wide and searching, and saw her struggle to maintain that careful composure. She was barely holding back tears, her wet eyes blinking rapidly, and her cheeks flushed.

“_Arimelda_-”

A tear escaped and trailed down her cheek.

“Please, don’t.” She looked so frail, with her shoulders hunched and the face turned stubbornly to a side, as she always did when trying to conceal her feelings. He wanted to step closer, have her hide her face into his neck, seek comfort in his embrace, but if he were to try to do that now, she would push him away.

“Why?”

She shook her head, “You know well why.”

He did, Valar, he did know. He knew of her despise for Fëanáro, which had only grown in the last years, after he had threatened him. He knew of her displeasure with sword-forging and the art of fencing they had refined and developed around the new weapons – art in which her own sons and daughter excelled, in which _he_ excelled. She blamed him, as she blamed Fëanáro, Finwë, Melkor.

He knew these things deep down, as he suspected she knew how her disappointment hurt him, how it appeared to him as if now she was just abandoning him – like his father and mother had done, when they turned their back and left…

He knew, because he had felt these emotions slip through their bond over time, as unguarded thoughts sometimes flashed through the mind and became careless words, thrown at the other in a moment of anger, with the precise intent to hurt. They had fought over these matters, bitterly, between shouts and tears, and Nolofinwë had always been grateful that their children had never been there to witness their parents tear each other down with vicious words. They had made up, unfailingly, with more tears and even more kisses, words whispered in between, soft caresses and embraces reserved for their bedroom. Heart to heart, mind to mind, they had mended each other’s bruises, and assuaged each other’s fears.

There was none of that complete intimacy now. They were being careful to filter their emotions through their bond, so that he could feel only sadness and regret at the upcoming parting, mingled with their deep, quiet love. It was a strategy they had both employed more recently, when they had been too tired and worried to spend so much energy in fighting. They could not make a scene in the king’s palace, after all. It would have been a scandal, it would have fuelled endless gossip, would have rendered real and tangible the fracture that was splitting the Noldor, as a people and as families.

If he knew her well – and he did, as she knew him like no other – he understood that she did not want to part with a fight and bitter words. She had always been like that, his Anairë. Her heart had always been soft and he had loved her – loved her still, so much – for that.

Yet, now it appeared that her softness had reached its limit. He could not understand, however, how she could just leave.

“Are you going back? With Arafinwë?”

“Yes.”

A small part of him had expected that. He had hoped to be the first one to tell her of what had happened in Alqualondë, of how their child, their firstborn, had led the vanguard against the Teleri to aid Fëanáro’s host. No matter how much he would have hated to do it, he could not bear the thought of not being the first to tell her, so that they could have made sense of the horror of it together, as they had always done. She deserved that at least.

Instead, when he had found her, some hours before, she had already known. Voices travelled quickly. He had reached their tent, and had found her there, curled up on the mattress, unmoving, silent, the pillow wet, but she had already stopped crying when he had approached. “I wish,” she had said, “that you could tell me it is not true, but…”

But she had seen it written plainly on his face, had felt his shock and sorrow. He had only shaken his head as he had sat beside her, one hand on her knee, the other curled in a fist, his nails digging in his palms. If he did that with enough force, maybe he would have drawn enough blood, he had thought, so that is hands could have been as red as his son’s.

They had remained silent, as they both had begun to collect their things, preparing for the journey ahead. _He_ had been preparing for the journey forward. She had been packing for her return.

“With Arafinwë,” he ran a hand through his disarrayed hair, his fingers catching in its tangles. It stung. “I see. When did you decide this?”

“You know I was reluctant since we set out. You were too.”

“I was. But I made a promise.”

She scoffed, “Of course.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked, a hard edge colouring his voice. They were back again at this old argument, and he wondered why he had brought it up, why he had mentioned his vow to Fëanáro when he knew Anairë would latch onto it and use it to attack him.

“What of the promises you made _me_? Are those meaningless?”

“Of course not-”

“Then why do you follow Fëanáro so?”

“He _is_ my king now, whether I like it or not.”

“And haven’t you been crowned king in Tirion, when he was exiled? Doesn’t the majority of your people call you Finwë Nolofinwë? I haven’t seen you make a great effort in discouraging them.”

“I promised to follow him, and to be a brother to him! I promised him that he would lead.”

“Oh, and you’d let him lead you and our children to slaughter?”

“Of course not!” he was restraining his voice, so as not to shout and be heard by the people hustling about around their tent. She seemed not to have such worries in that moment.

“But it seems to me that way!” she cried, “You promised me, Nolofinwë, you vowed to me that he would not come between us; that your loyalty towards him would not come before that which you owe to your wife and the mother of your children. Yet, all I see now is you following a madman, hoping for Eru knows what, that he looked your way? That he trusted you?”

“I’m not blind, Anairë, he will never trust me like that. But he will need me, if he wants to face Melkor.”

“Keep telling yourself that.” Her voice was venomous, and he would have been shocked, if he were not so angry.

“I will not turn back now. I have a father and a king to avenge. And also, all those people that have listened to Melkor, only to have him kill their king, destroy the Trees and ruin all our lives!”

“Vengeance! That is the only thing you men think about. And we break and bend to accommodate you and your plans! This is folly.”

“And what about our children, Anairë? Will you leave them?”

“Don’t you dare use them to guilt me, Nolofinwë. Don’t you dare.”

“I’m not using them, damn it. But I wonder, why would you turn your back on them, when they need you the most.”

“They needed their father to make them stay! Nothing I’ll say will persuade them, they have become just as proud as you. Look at where it got them,” her voice cracked, wavered, “I don’t know if I can look at Findekáno the same way again.”

So that was it. The reason why she had jumped so easily into the argument, why she – and him, in truth – had stalled, choosing instead to recriminate at each other, using again the same old accusations, justifications, excuses that would never bring them to a solution. To hear her say something like this, of their own son nonetheless, hurt. It would have hurt less if she had simply left him because of his stubborn pride, because he had done her a wrong of some kind.

“Anairë, what are you saying? He’s our son!”

“And what son of mine has grown up into a – a _kinslayer_? Tell me, Nolofinwë, because I don’t understand. I have never encouraged him to use violence, I have not taught him how to use those accursed swords. You did. You let your _half_-brother come between us, despite your promises, you let him drag you into this, this mess, this feud, you have become so proud, I could barely recognise you sometimes.”

“So it is my fault, now? Are you renouncing him?”

“Don’t put words I never said into my mouth! It breaks my heart to know of what he did, to know why he did it! Fëanáro’s words have gotten to him too, and now, because of them, my son, my own child, whom I have nurtured, birthed, whom I love more than anyone in this world, is damned, exiled! And for what? For a cousin that in the last years has only distanced himself, who will always, always put his father and brothers before Findekáno. Our son did not deserve this.” She sat heavily on the bed, her hands limp on her lap, her reddened eyes staring at the floor, “He did not deserve any of this. He has always loved his cousin too much.”

His rage vanished in an instant, when Anairë hid her face behind her hands and cried. “So you see why I cannot leave him,” he said quietly.

“_Arimelda_,” he sat beside her, his greater weight tipping the mattress so that she was pulled towards him. He did not reach out to embrace her, but after a moment of hesitation, she leaned on him. He felt her tears soak into his tunic as he put an arm around her shoulders and took her hands in his. He had always loved her hands, had loved to caress them and kiss them, just to see her pretty blush redden her cheeks. They were slender and nimble, elegant and deceptively soft. She had always been stronger than she seemed. He had loved to gift her rings and bracelets to adorn her fingers and wrists, and she had worn them when at court or during feast. At home, however, her hands were always bare, save for her betrothal and marriage rings.

He looked at the two now, at how they glinted in the cold light of the lamps, and tried to memorise their shape, the way they sat on her fingers, their warmth (her warmth, the shape of her body against his, the way her breath felt against his skin. Little things he knew he would miss).

“You are right. I taught him how to use a sword, how to kill a man. I wish I never had to. I wish – But if something were to happen to one of them because they did not know how to defend themselves… We are going to war, Anairë. Despite what Fëanáro had our people believe, I have not forgotten that.”

And now that his mind had calmed and cleared, he was suddenly grateful that she had decided to stay here in Aman, in a place safer that the Hither Lands would be, with her parents, her friends, people that would keep her company, while he…

“You are going to war against a Vala. The mightiest,” she murmured, “I doubt a sword could kill him.”

“Maybe not just one. But a thousand? Hundred thousand, perhaps, might achieve the impossible.”

“Oh, Arakáno,” she raised her head and looked at him. One of her hands came up to cup his jaw, turning his head so that he faced her. Her eyes were so sad. “Don’t – Let it not be your sword. Don’t face him.”

“I will have to, sooner or later.”

“Let – let someone else do it.”

That meant Fëanáro. But that also meant going against his very nature, and she knew it. He kissed her brow, “I cannot make this promise.”

She closed her eyes, and rested her head again on his shoulder. “I know,” she said.

There was something else he needed to say, to confess to her, before locking that truth away in his heart, never to be mentioned to anyone else.

“I think I understand my father, now.”

“What?”

“When he went in exile with Fëanáro. I am doing the same, am I not?”

She frowned, “Findekáno didn’t threaten one of his brothers-”

“He did worse. He killed.”

“I refuse to believe he did it with the same malice and resentment of Fëanáro when he pointed that sword at you.”

“True. Still, he will be exiled and I can’t let him go on alone. His brothers and sister will go with him too.”

Anairë stayed silent for a while, and then whispered something Nolofinwë could not hear. “What is it?”

“Am I a bad mother?”

He startled, shocked. He tightened his embrace, burying his face in her hair. “Where did you get such an idea?”

“I – They… I don’t know, I just feel like I failed somewhere and now they are slipping away and I can’t reach them, I can’t- ” she took a shuddering breath. Nolofinwë felt her hands tighten into fists on his back.

“Please, look at me, _arimelda_.”

She did, and he tried to dry her tears with his thumb, each one of them a tiny stab in his heart. It was his fault. All of it, all of her sadness, her worries, the entire situation.

“If anything,” he said, “It is I who has failed them. I have failed each one of you.”

“Don’t say that.”

“And you don’t say you’re a bad mother,” he said, and kissed her brow again, and the tip of her nose, “You are the best they could want, and they know it.”

_Then why won’t they stay? Why do they feel the need to run away now?_ She did not need to say these words for him to understand. He had no answers for her.

Her hands went to his hair, and she began to undo his tresses, with care and gentleness. He felt his body relax under her touch, while his heart thumped so loud in his chest, he was sure she could hear it. She massaged the back of his neck, his scalp, then ran her hands over his shoulders, on his chest. When her fingers met the hem of his shirt at the hollow of his throat, she caressed the skin there, then began to loose the ties.

“Watch over them. Please,” she said.

“I will,” he said hoarsely, “I will do anything I can to protect them.”

The way she looked at him in that moment was both heart breaking and determined. “I know,” she said, a feeble smile touching her lips, “I know.”

He had to kiss her, then, had to taste that smile for himself, to see if it was as sweet as it promised to be. Her lips were soft and already swollen, and he recognised a faint taste of blood on the tip of his tongue. She had been biting her lips, as she always did when upset. The taste was so familiar, for a moment he could imagine that they were back in Tirion, in their bedroom, making up after one of their fights.

He deepened the kiss, hungry and desperate. He mapped her body with his hands, large and calloused over the soft fabric of her gown, and he fumbled, searching for its hems, frustrated, because he wanted to feel her skin under his fingers, her softness and warmth without barriers. He shifted over the mattress, dragging her with him, over him, as she pressed her body to his, her unbound dark hair falling down and creating a curtain around them. How he longed for this moment to never end. He could well remain here for all eternity, hidden behind her silky hair, her lips on his, her legs around his waist.

She pushed him back against the mattress, breaking their kiss. She towered over him, a vision of black hair and pale skin, so breathtakingly beautiful he could do nothing but stare at her flushed cheeks, her red swollen lips, her bosom rising and falling with the rhythm of her shallow breaths, the shape of her hard nipples visible through the fabric. Her hands trailed slowly down his chest, his abdomen, where his shirt was tucked into his straining breeches.

Gingerly, teasingly, she unfastened the laces there, biding her time while she dragged out the shirt, pushed it over his sides. He raised his torso to help her remove it, and his hands soon went to her buttocks, the back of her tights, slipping beneath her gown and finally touching the tender skin. He felt her shiver as he pushed up and removed the offending garment, revealing her perfect body, slender and toned by the years she had spent dancing and racing. He had always loved the way her muscles flexed and relaxed against his as they made love, had loved how he could discover parts of her that were still impossibly soft, especially after her pregnancies, where his fingers could hold on and squeeze, making her squirm and giggle.

But there was no giggling this time, no light-hearted laughter muffled against each other’s skin. He longed and burned for her, but the ache in his chest remained there, constricting his heart. She felt it too.

He kissed her neck, biting slightly until she moaned, her hands tangling in his hair, guiding him where she wanted. How could he resist her? His hands cupped her backside as he kissed her breast, took a nipple in his mouth, suckling and biting again, his name leaving her lips together with her breath.

“Tell me what you want, _melda_,” he said.

She pushed him back again and he went willingly, entirely at her mercy, as her hands flew to his unfastened breeches and his underwear, pulling them down his legs, finally freeing his swollen member. She caressed him once, and his entire body jolted in pleasure, while he struggled to stifle a moan with the back of his hand.

“I want you to touch me,” she said, and Nolfinwë’s heart constricted even more by the uncertainty in her tone, “I want to feel you, I want you near, I-” her voice wavered, “Make love to me, Arakáno.”

She sounded vulnerable, for the first time in centuries. The only time she had been this unsure had been their first night together, but back then her nervousness was caused by inexperience. Now, they both knew each other too well to be uncertain in bed.

“As you desire, my love,” he said. His hands trembled when he ran them over her sides, hugged her shoulders and drew her to him, guiding her so that she lay on her back. She looked up at him, her pale-blue eyes almost black in arousal, but still slightly puffed and reddened by her tears. He kissed her and settled between her welcoming legs. He kept kissing her, on her lips, her neck, her breasts, as one of his hand trailed down until it slipped between the black curls that hid her sex.

He let the hand rest there for a second, its weight teasing her clitoris, and she moaned, half in pleasure, half frustrated. She lifted her hips to press against his palms, and bit his bottom lip in retaliation. He dipped a finger down, finding her entrance damp already, and slid inside, slowly. She was hot to the touch, soft and wet, her muscles giving under the pressure of his finger. He moaned in unison with her, and dragged his finger out over her clitoris, circling and teasing at it for a while, dipping in and out of her, before taking his hand away. She made a disappointed sound at the back of her throat, which turned into a louder moan when his mouth replaced his hand.

Eru, he loved her.

She squirmed under him, her legs shifting restlessly on the sheets, the muscles tensing under his palms as he held them open. Her moans and barely stifled gasps had him shuddering, aching for his own release, but he would be patient. For now, he would worship her as she deserved. He knew how to prolong her pleasure, how to move, where to touch and when to stop, before she could tumble over her edge. He looked up and met her blazing eyes, felt her _fëa_ stir and reach out, and he answered her call by slipping two fingers inside her, and mimicking the movement of lovemaking. Soon he felt all her muscles give in and allow him to reach deeper inside her.

“I’m close, _melmë_, please-”

He drew away and made his way up, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses over her tights, her belly, the underside of her breasts, where he knew she was particularly sensitive. He cupped her breasts with his hands, teasing her nipples, as he kissed and licked the tender skin of her neck, her jaw, before making his way to her ear, biting first the lobe and then the tip. Her gasp was almost obscene.

One of her hands in his hair pulled, while with the other left burning marks on his back, then lower, where it became a fluttering caress over his buttocks, the back of his tights. His groan became a low growl and his hips jerked as her hand skimmed over his hipbone and wormed its way between them, teasing his sex.

He raised his head from the crook of her neck and rested his forehead against hers, where their laboured breaths mingled. He kissed the tip of her nose and saw her lips curve in a tender smile, the one she reserved only for him, the one that had made him weak in the knees ever since their youth, the very one she had worn, more beautiful than any jewel, the day they married, the days their children had been born.

“Tease,” she said.

He smirked and gave her lips a small peck.

“As I said, tease,” she laughed breathlessly, and he could have given up everything in that moment, his mission, his crown, his duties, if she asked. But she would not. She knew him too well to hope that he would be content with staying behind, while others fought his battles for him. She had once told him that she loved this trait of his, but that it infuriated her to no end when it drove him to do reckless things. Such as following his fey half-brother across the Sea to face a Vala. He wondered if she regretted it. This. Their marriage.

She caressed his jaw, and he focussed his eyes on her again.

“Where are you, _melmë_?” she asked.

He nuzzled her palm, pushing those dark thoughts away before they could ruin even this, their last moment of intimacy. “I’m here, _arimelda_,” he ground his hips against hers, his sex rubbing over hers. She sighed in pleasure, and her hand found him again, stroking him the way she knew drove him crazy, until he had to hold her wrist to stop her.

“If you continue like that, I won’t last much longer.”

She huffed, “Then hurry up, my dear,” She spread her legs further and pressed her heels on his lower back, “You have teased me enough already.”

“As my wife commands.”

It was almost second nature for him to push into her, knowing perfectly how she liked it. This time, however, he did it slower that usual, taking his time to marvel at the moment and memorise every single twitch of her muscles, every hitch of her breath and her little gasps, her warmth enveloping him until he was fully buried inside her. He wanted to see every emotion flash behind her eyes, to remember the way her fingers dug into his skin, how her toes curled. And most of all, how she whispered his name, _Arakáno_, out of breath and so achingly sweet, no prayer could compare to the reverence and love she was able to pour into it.

Their _fëar_ soared and mingled, and he trembled and sobbed in her arms, overwhelmed. They were bare before each other, every thought, every emotion flew from one end to the other of their bond, and neither of them knew where the confines of their being lay, if any remained. He had to pause for a moment, trying to regain his breath and wit. Anairë was as much of a wreck as him, and when they looked at each other they both gave a watery laugh, less joyful than it could have been.

“I love you,” he whispered, and the words hovered between their lips.

Her eyes fluttered, as they had done the first time he had confessed, so long ago, then she closed the distance, kissing him fully and deeply, with as much longing as he felt in his heart. He wanted to melt into her, to find a home in the cradle of her hips and the soft warmth of her mouth. He moved against her, the pleasure mounting and burning in his loins had him crying hoarsely, his hands clutching desperately hers. She echoed him back, her hips meeting his thrusts eagerly and with abandon as she reached her climax, her back arching and crushing her belly against his, her breasts brushing his chest, head thrown back, her neck exposed to his unrelenting kisses and bites. He came soon after her, his entire body taut as a bowstring, shuddering and growling against her throat, her name a litany.

He stayed there, limp as a blanket over her, whishing that this moment could last indefinitely. He felt her hand run through his tangled hair, brushing it back and revealing his brow, where she placed a kiss as soft as a butterfly.

“I love you,” she murmured, “never forget that.”

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to stop the tears. “I will return to you, Anairë.”

She placed a finger on his lips, silencing him, “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

“No,” he murmured, “I will keep this one,” but even as he said this, he knew that she was right. He could not know, after all, what the future had in store for him.

**Author's Note:**

> I love this pair so much, it's a shame that there's so few content both in canon and in fandom.  
Anyway, if you liked this, let me know!


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